More Than I Can Chew?

A few days ago I decided to begin a serious attempt at writing fiction. The last time I tried, I was 10 years old. So I'm just a little rusty.

I rather like the idea of writing a novel. I actually wrote that into my bucket list when I made one a couple of years ago. But at that time I had no idea when I would get around to making a beginning. There were a few other things in the list that seemed easier, so I figured I would focus on them first. There would be time enough to write a novel after I went to Machu Picchu and after I got my hair colored purple.

But for a few different reasons I've decided that the time to begin the novel is now. And I am discovering that I have taken on an even bigger challenge than I had realized.

I had assumed that the hard part of writing a novel would be the mechanics involved in telling a long story. Things like keeping track of characters and chrolonolgy, avoiding plot inconsistencies, and maintaining a consistent writing style. It turns out I had over looked the biggest challenge of all: finding a story to tell that people would be interested in reading!

I now realize how easy blogging can be. All I have to do is find something interesting, and then describe it. There is no real creation involved, it's simply a matter of telling it like it is.

The trouble with fiction is that it is all about telling it like it isn't. It's got to be a story that is not an ordinary everyday story, because that would be boring. But it also has to be within the realms of believability otherwise it won't be credible enough to be engaging. It has to have characters that are interesting enough that you care about what happens to them. But they also have to be relatable otherwise the reader would not empathize with them. And so the art of creating a story for a novel turns out to be a phenomenal balancing act between the believable and the fantastic.

One of the great things about this adventure is that it has made me much more aware as a reader. I am currently reading the Girl Who Played With Fire. It's a crime thriller by a Swedish author named Stieg Larsson. I already knew it was a great book. But now I have become more conscious of what makes it a great book. I am now able to appreciate the care that went into creating Lisbeth Salander, the title character. She is obviously totally different from me or anyone I know. And yet Mr. Larsson tells me just enough about her that I feel like I know her, that I have known people who had glimmers of the characteristics that Lisbeth has, and that I can understand her well enough that I give a damn about her fate. And this is for a character who is clearly disturbed, somewhat sociopathic, given to intense violent rage, and is absolutely brilliant.

I now have an urge to go back and re-read my favorite books, the ones that had the most lasting impact on me. I want to read them simultaneously at two levels, the reader who just cares for the story and the apprentice who gazes in awe at a master craftsman at work.

It's going to be a hard and painful road, writing a novel, and I'm looking forward to every bit of it!

About Once Every Twenty Years

It was a Hollywood moment. The one where you're in a cafe on a summer evening with a girl in your arms. You look into her eyes and the sounds around you fade away into a soft murmur. She looks into your eyes with complete, unquestioning trust.

And then, softly fluttering her tiny eyelids, she falls asleep cradled against your chest.

I looked up from little Sofi to her parents and said defensively "This never happens to me!"

You see, I don't like other people's children. I avoid their babies. They're ugly. Last week a colleague offered to show me a picture of her baby. I looked at her (I have a special look for moments like these). "There's no good way to say this", I explained, "so I'll just say it. I don't like to look at baby pictures. They're all the same to me." She tried to explain that was impossible, that everyone loves babies and thinks they're cute. Finally, in desperation, she said it must be because I'm a man. And I thought to myself No, it's because that's a baby and one day she may be gorgeous but right now she's mostly fat with limbs attached. I didn't say it, but I thought it.

I did once meet a child who was irresistibly charming. I think she was around 5 years old and her name was Kati. She lived in a tribal village in central India where I spent a summer. She had a smile that would very slowly spread across her face until it was brighter than the sun. That was the summer of 1991; I still remember her vividly.

But she was the one enchanting exception to prove the rule that if you're too young to drive, your parents should keep you away from me.

I don't make funny faces at babies. I don't lisp at toddlers. I don't ask 6-year-olds what they're doing at school because I don't give a damn. And if you've just delivered a baby I'm really happy for you but I will not visit you in hospital. I actually like hospitals, I've had some incongruously funny experiences in them! But newborns give me the creeps.

And no, I don't want to hold your baby. You made it, you keep it! That's what I should have said in response to the question "Sofi seems to like you; do you want to hold her?"

But Spain had just won their quarter-final in the World Cup, I was drinking Sangria, it was a lovely sunny day, and I wanted to be nice.

And that's how Sofi ended up with her head against my chest and my arms around her. That's how she fell asleep with her fingers loosely curled around my thumb. That's how... Gah! Never mind. It's no use trying to deny it. I like Sofi.

This could be the beginning of the end of me as I know him.